


The Departed

by mortalitasi



Series: stella splendens [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Family, Gen, General, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 15:19:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2196762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortalitasi/pseuds/mortalitasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cousland is not a warden, but she has nightmares all the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Departed

All the practice in the world wouldn’t be able to prepare her for Oren’s expression, that she knew— she’s seen him reach the heights of joy before (mabaris and swords help the climb upward) and for a year she’s been waiting, content to have found the perfect present for her wide-eyed Oren, her little devil.

She’d gotten the idea when the last of Oriana’s dowry arrived from Antiva, smelling like sun and spices and heady dust that told of a warmth you simply couldn’t find in Ferelden no matter how many taverns you invaded or bear pelts you slept under. The trunks and clothes held a mystique for Oren that nothing else did. He’d played at kings and Crows one day until Oriana had swept him up in her arms and forbade him from mentioning them ever again. How many tears were had that day— many. Too many. She prefers Oren with a smile. 

"Ser Oren," she’d say to him, because he loved it too well when she called him that ("He will  _not_  be a knight!” Oriana had supplied helpfully), “I have something for you.” 

And she would give him his first small blade and tell him that in the morning an especially special guest of  _much_  speciality would arrive, all Antivan in dress and character and manner, to teach him how to be a proper hero. Would he like that, she’d ask him, even though she’d already know the answer— Oriana would be far too humbled by the trouble she’d gone through to find an Antivan fencing master to refuse the offer. It would be simply lovely. 

"Happy birthday," she’d say to him, ruffling the down of his hair and dropping a kiss to the crown of his head, and they would be happy. 

But when she opens the door to her chambers, as she has a hundred thousand times before, all that awaits her is smoke and ruin and broken things. The stones of the castle glow cherry-red with fire and she burns, the skin flaking away from her cheeks and wrists like so many petals of ash in the hot wind. She inhales rot and speaks in soot and the filth bubbles between her lips, but she can only hear the dull roar of the flames when she tries to scream at the sight of beloved faces emerging from the stone, twisted in agony, shining red and wet. 

That’s when the floor falls away from below, like it always does, and she’s left hurtling through the black, numb and blind and nerveless.

The darkness closes in, and she cannot stand against it. 

—

She wakes breathing harshly, her cheek stuck to her ratty pillow with sweat. It takes several long moments for her to realize there is no castle, no flaming stones— only the whisper of the breeze in the leaves, chill and sharp with the first notes of autumn.

The warmth at her side is Carrick, curled into the curve of the bedroll, his great chest rising and falling with each heavy sigh, muzzle resting on his tucked paws. Faithful Carrick, who has been everything from best friend to trusty steed to pantry bandit. She tangles her fingers in his coat and turns on her other side, the sheen of perspiration on her skin cooling too rapidly for her liking. The Warden is sitting by the fire— does this woman not sleep?— longbow leaned against her knee. 

"Is something the matter, my lady?" 

The title sounds awkward coming out of an elf’s mouth. Too cutting. Too honest. Adrian coughs into her elbow and wipes the erstwhile strands of hair clinging to her temples away with one hand. The Warden’s bizarre, swirling tattoos are sharp in the firelight, turning her face into something aquiline and inhuman. 

"Bad dreams," is all Adrian answers, turning once more so she can pillow her head against Carrick’s sloping shoulder. The silence sits on her, heavy and wrong, until it forces the last of the words from her. "It’s Adrian. Just Adrian."

She says no more.


End file.
